


Charade

by yeaka



Category: Jessie's Girl - Rick Springfield (Song)
Genre: Crossdressing, M/M, Vignette
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2020-12-29
Packaged: 2021-03-10 22:15:17
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 892
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28414494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: It’s a confusing time for two people.
Relationships: Jessie/Narrator (Jessie's Girl)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 9





	Charade

**Author's Note:**

> A/N: Inspired by Jessie’s Girl by Rick Springfield—the song, not video. 
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own the song Jessie’s Girl or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

His walkman’s brand new, and the rewind button’s already dulled, because he keeps going back to the same song all day long. He listens right through dinner and into the evening—the same steady drum and wicked guitar, wailing away to drown out his sorrows. It’s easy to forget being alone in the midst of music. The storyline carries him off even when the lyrics fade and the instruments take over, driving every step, every swing—he’s dancing more than walking down the empty street. It was chilly when he left, but he doesn’t feel cold when he’s dancing. There’s no audience to laugh or cheer. There’s no one for miles, not even any barking dogs or chugging cars, because everybody who’s anybody is inside with a partner, sharing chocolate and flowers. 

Ricky’s an extra special nobody on the fourteenth, but the walkman makes it hurt a little less. A friend will make the hurt fade all together. At least Jessie’s single too, because there’s no time for girls between stain glass and songwriting. Ricky figures they can toast to unrequited love songs and still count for something. He’d call, but a surprise visit’s the friendship equivalent of roses on the doorstep. At least, it is in February. He turns the final corner and walks the last block, scrolling back to the same song one more time. His hair keeps getting caught in the breeze and his headphones, but he keeps grooving away.

Then he’s right across the lane from the one-story bungalow with the big bay windows and an ever-present orange glow from the always-lit hearth. The fire’s crackling inside, throwing shadows along the ceiling, and the beige curtains are drawn wide open for Ricky to watch. 

Jessie’s in the living room, back half-turned to the window, watching himself in the oval mirror over the sofa. If it weren’t for the thick blond waves atop a shaved nape on broad shoulders, Ricky wouldn’t know it was Jessie at all. Because Jessie lives in jeans and band shirts, and this person’s rocking a black polka dot dress with frilled sleeves. 

There’s music in the house too, not loud enough to hear over Ricky’s makeshift ear muffs, but Jessie’s dancing to the same beat in Ricky’s head. His hips are tossing back and forth like he’s about to surf the crowd, and his arms are over his head in a frenzy, fists pumping to drums. One hand drops to his hair, fingers raking back through dyed tufts, tugging at the end and pulling away—then Jessie does a spin and returns to his reflection, staring at it like Ricky stares at his glasswork in class. He’s a work of art, always has been, but is a whole new genre in a short flowing skirt straight off Soul Train. He’s never been so beautiful. 

He knows it. He’s eyeing himself in the mirror, smiling like he’s the girl of his dreams, of both their dreams, and those eyes are so big and green that Ricky feels like he can see the hazel flecks in them all the way across the pavement. He knows that face, has even seen it in his dreams, just not in this light or this rhythm. Jessie does a little shimmy down to his knees, palms smoothing over his chest to his thighs, utilizing every bit of his rock star silhouette. He’s got the body of an angel—a Grecian one a pedestal. Like he should be on stage, not on a guitar in Ricky’s garage, but right out front and belting it for a stadium, or on a podium at the side with two other dancers, doing it all—he’s a one-person concert, and Ricky’s got the sole ticket. Then Jessie comes back up and wraps his arms tight around his body, giving himself the kind of hug Ricky’s never given anybody, and something clenches in Ricky’s chest hard and painful. 

It’s admiration and want and jealousy all in one. He never knew quite what he was looking for, but that’s it, the kind of woman he wants—just like that. For a split second, Jessie _is that_. And Ricky thinks of marching to the door and saying so, because what does he really need a best friend for anyway when the perfect muse/lover/partner’s right there. 

But that’d ruin the friendship. There’s no point chasing a change that can’t happen. He knows he’ll go home in a few minutes or few hours and show up for class tomorrow. He’ll be cool with the lines and talk normal, not cute, about inane things and the kind of women they want, when he knows he’s just found what he’s looking for. The tape skips on the final beat, at the end of its legs, and for once, Ricky doesn’t rewind. Jessie’s stopped dancing—his song’s ending too. 

He turns around, scratching the back of his head and standing in the same strong pose he always strikes, same wide stance and thick biceps and chiseled jaw like a statue. Then he turns towards the window, and their eyes catch by chance. 

Ricky’s standing there in the dark, screaming in silence. 

Jessie lifts a tentative hand and smiles. Ricky smiles back on automatic. 

They head for the same door at the same time, the same song blasting back into the foreground.


End file.
